


An Ornery Orrery

by Morbane



Series: The Persistence of Memory [1]
Category: The Middleman (TV)
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 1, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Gen, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/pseuds/Morbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Wendy and the Middleman battle across time, and Lacey works out some yellow teddy blues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ornery Orrery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [were_duck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/were_duck/gifts).



 “Hostile at eleven o’clock, Dubbie!” the Middleman shouted.

Wendy Watson glanced left and fired at a small, golden ant scurrying across the wall.

“2:37 PM!” she snapped back, seeing a flicker over her boss’s shoulder.

The Middleman hesitated, but he shot the alien behind him just as the display across which it was running blinked over into 2:38.

“X marks the shot,” whooped Wendy, and blasted another glitter-bug off a numeral.

“Galileo at Gallifrey! According to my count, that’s the last of them,” said the Middleman. “Each hive of _Zenomorph paradoxia_ consists of twelve drones."

The proprietor poked her head out. “Are they gone?”

“A thing of the past,” the Middleman assured her. “The Arthropod Defenestration Division has taken care of it.”

“I’m so grateful,” said Laetitia de Long. “Please. Take this with you.” She thrust into Wendy’s hands a thing that whirred, with spheres on spindly arms. Wendy squinted. Her vision was oddly blurry.

“An orrery! How charming,” said the Middleman.

“It is, admittedly, imperfect,” said de Long. "Following that infestation, it no longer plays the perfect melody of the spheres which I have named Laetitia de Long’s Etude. But it is proportionate in its planetary movements and has educational and philosophical value.”

“We’re very grateful,” said the Middleman.

 

 “Hey,” Wendy snapped at Ida, before realising that Ida had not, in fact, yet said,

“Time out of joint, huh?”

The Middleman subjected her to concerned scrutiny.

“Dubbie,” he said. “I’m concerned you’ve been adversely affected by our _Zenomorph paradoxia_ foes.”

“How do you figure that?” Wendy said. The bugs hadn’t touched her - which was more than she could say for her boss.

“As I said, the _Zenomorph paradoxia_ make a nuisance of themselves by manipulating the experience of time in other sentient beings. Hence their fondness for clocks. You appear to have been affected by their distortions. I suggest you go home and sleep it off.”

“Really?” said Wendy. “This isn’t a test to see if I’m emotionally together, is it?”

“There’s no shame in temporal displacement,” the Middleman declared.

She continued to side-eye him. “I said scout’s honour, didn’t I?” said the Middleman.

“Scout’s honour,” said the Middleman.

“Fine,” said Wendy. “I take your point.”

 

The Middleman drove Wendy home. Wendy stood in the lift, clutching her orrery, contemplating the rest of the day. She felt fine. Mostly. But several things the Middleman had said in the car had occurred in the wrong order (unless that was pure manipulation (because, judging by the nesting of parenthetical interjections, her internal monologue was in working order (and that wouldn’t be totally out of character (okay, damn))).

Wendy shook her head and reeled into her apartment.

“Wendy?” A yellow teddy head turned towards her. “What’s up?”

Wendy pressed a button on her watch. The Middleman’s voice buzzed out. “She has a case of sun-dial-stroke and may be disoriented. Please make sure Wendy stays at home today.”

“Huh,” said Lacey. “Sun-dial-stroke?”

“Um,” said Wendy, trying to remember if their refrigerator was still stocked with Magnum P.I., the vegan, guilt-free, flavour-intensive gelato that she saved for no-good very-bad days. “I’m gonna throw a blanket on the couch and crash. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

 

What Lacey had in fact been doing was articulating something very important to her.

As a confrontational spoken-word artist, the most powerful tool Lacey had to analyse her world was speech.

"Today I want to talk about this suit," she resumed. Wendy, long-accustomed to the background murmur, shifted her pillows and relaxed again.

"One. This suit is my mecha of meta," Lacey said. "This suit is my fluffy frame of reference. When I am in this suit, I see the world through different arrays, and it displays itself differently. This suit restricts my vision and extends my normal understanding."

She looked over at the couch. " _You_ know that, Dub-Dub," she said warmly.

"Two. This teddy bear suit reflects the contrast between the seen and the seer.

"I know who I am. I also know that no one will ever see me exactly as I see myself, even with the greatest of love and the best of intentions.

"I can internalise that struggle. I can struggle to explain myself, to bring what's inside of me to the outside world. I have done this and I will continue to do this.

"But in this suit, I am externalising that struggle. I am saying, _yes_ , there is a difference between who I am and who I appear, and I know that. I don't have to fight that all the time. I can _embrace_ that."

And there was another idea she’d been toying with lately, that was beginning to take on true emotional resonance. “I am a confrontational spoken-word performance artist,” Lacey said out loud, confronting her own recent silence on this issue. “Sometimes it’s hard to be shouting at the world all the time. Sometimes the rage seems to rush in faster than it rushes out.

"My confrontation comes from a place of love," Lacey avowed. "It isn't always visible in my anger, but I love the world. I am a caring person. I care for the world. This bear is my hug. This bear is my pat on the back. This bear is my mascot of me."

There. She'd said it. It wasn't quite right, but it held some of the right ideas. She wandered over to get herself some water, checking on Wendy again.

Wendy's eyes were closed and she was smiling.

It occurred to Lacey that for the entire career of Lacey's bear, Wendy had been there. Even today, by complete happenstance, she had been present for the evolution of the idea, making the silence in the room a little less charged for action and a little more open. 

“Hey, Lacey. My head is a weird place right now. I'm so glad you're here,” Wendy muttered, still not opening her eyes.

“I know, Dub Dub,” Lacey said. “I’m glad I’m here for you too.”


End file.
